


Ober Nights

by Koah



Series: RWBY: Providence AU [3]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Gen, Modern Royalty, Original Character-centric, Platonic Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9229631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koah/pseuds/Koah
Summary: A noble, a ninja, an orphan, and an auto mechanic visit a lovely port city, meet the locals, get involved with community organizations, and whoop the crap out of a lot of people as everything goes wrong at once.





	1. Orin Falconer

Orin took a deep breath, running his free hand through his short shock of red hair. "Okay," he said to himself, nodding. "Okay. Business as usual."

He strode down the hallway, stack of empty pizza boxes balanced on one hand. Stopping outside one of the apartments, he paused to double-check the number, then rapped his knuckles on the door. After a long silence he glanced up at the number, then knocked again, this time getting a response in the form of an irritated-sounding voice. "Whaddaya want?"

"Pizza's here."

"We didn't order a pizza."

" _Someone_ did, and they paid for it and told me to bring it here. You want it or not?"

There was a muted conversation between the man at the door and someone else further in, and after a few seconds he heard the deadbolt unlock and a chain being drawn. As the door cracked open he let the boxes fall from his hand, raising one boot and slamming it directly into the door above the knob. The sound of wood on bone rang out, and there was a grunt of pain as the man behind the door stumbled back, leaving it ajar.

Orin reached into his pocket, removing the red-lensed, bone white mask of the White Fang and sliding it into place. With two metallic clicks the gauntlets on his hands deployed to their full size, overlapping metal plates extending over his fingers and up his forearms, and he burst into the apartment, driving one fist into the man's face with a wide overhead hook and sending him collapsing to the floor as blood streamed from his nostrils.

A second man stepped out from a doorway not more than three feet from where the first fell, carrying a bat and looking confused at the sudden intrusion. He barely had time to register surprise before Orin was on him, grabbing him by the throat with one hand and ripping the bat from his hands with the other. He pulled away just as Orin let go, attempting to retreat from the entry hall into the living room as the intruder advanced, giving Orin the clearance for a swing to the side of his skull and knocking him unconscious before he hit the floor.

Ducking into the open kitchen he whipped the bat through the air, catching another man in the shoulder as he reached for a knife on the counter. As he recoiled in pain Orin quickly strode in, hammering him with a one-two punch to the face before sliding his foot between his legs and, with a twist, throwing him him to the ground. As the man quickly tried to return to his feet Orin reached over to the stove and upended the pot of boiling water he was tending onto him, sending him into convulsions on the tile floor as he let out a hoarse, agonized cry.

As Orin turned away a figure charged out of the bathroom, fists raised, and he only had time to raise his arms to block the punch. As the man's fist hit the vambrace he felt something pop through the metal and the man reeled, screaming curses. Reaching out with both hands, Orin grabbed the collar of his jacket and drove his knee into his solar plexus once, twice, three times before dragging him back into the bathroom, throwing him face-first against the toilet and driving his boot into the back of his head hard enough to crack the porcelain.

Hearing loud talking from the next room over, he scooped up the lid of the toilet with both hands, breezing out of the room. Heading for the next door over he brought it overhead as it slammed open, the figure stepping out carrying a meat cleaver. The lid shattered across his skull before he even knew where Orin was, and the cleaver slipped from his hand as he crumpled to the floor.

Orin tossed the lid aside before standing still for a second, listening. Hearing nothing but the pained whimpers of the man in the kitchen, he stepped over the body on the floor and entered the bedroom, spotting a metal briefcase on the bed. Popping the latches, he opened the case, scanning the contents and, with a nod, closing it again. He left, taking two steps out before being tackled by one of the men he had struck down in the apartment, his crooked nose streaming blood. He collided with Orin's midsection shoulder-first, lifting him up off his feet from the force of impact and sending them both sailing through the window behind them in a hail of broken wood and glass.

There was a moment of weightlessness as they went over the alley below, and Orin wondered, again, if _this_ wasn't the day he would die, halfway across the world from home, this time for certain. His thoughts were interrupted by the unsettling crunch of glass as they landed roughly on the sloped glass skylight of the warehouse next door, the briefcase slipping from his hand. The man grabbed the collar of his green work shirt and pulled him up, delivering a hook to his jaw. As he pulled his fist back for a second punch Orin clamped one hand around his wrist and the other around his neck, forcing him to the side and rolling on top of him before pounding away at his face. The spiderweb of cracks spread across the glass with each blow until finally giving away, sending them both through the skylight into the warehouse below.

The man crashed through a wooden table and Orin landed on top of him, his fall cushioned by both, and a half-second later the briefcase landed beside him. Forcing himself to his feet, he shook off the cobwebs, and as his eyes focused he found he wasn't alone: There were a half-dozen men armed with various implements standing around a low stack of boxes staring at him. Atop the boxes were two briefcases, one of them open and filled with stacks of lien bills. Orin had several guesses as to what the other held, none of them good.

"Let me guess," he said. "Ten Brothers triad, right?"

One of men, bald with a wicked-looking chemical burn across the top of his skull, snatched up the briefcase and bolted, slowing only to turn and shout, "kill this _gau min_!" before shoulder-checking the door open and disappearing onto the street.

Two of the Ten Brothers pulled out knives, circling around to either side of Orin as he edged backwards. He ducked back as the first lunged at him, dodging swings aimed at his jugular. One went wide and his arm snapped out, grabbing the man by the wrist, twisting it and forcing him to drop his weapon as he lashed out with two quick jabs to the face before following it up with a boot to the groin. The man wheezed as he fell to his knees and, letting go of his wrist, Orin delivered a sweeping side kick to his head, sending him sprawling.

Backing away from the second man, Orin hooked his foot under one of the legs of the broken table, flipping it up and snatching it out of the air in time to catch the incoming knife strike. They yanked the weapons apart, and Orin stepped forward with a quick swing, catching him in the side of the head. The man staggered away from the blow, putting him in position for an upward swing from Orin, the impact letting out a sickening crack and a drizzle of blood as he collapsed to the floor.

A quick movement caught Orin's eye as one of the men reached behind him, and before he even saw what was in his hand he was aware of an assembly of springs and levers, slides and pins, all carefully arranged, partially neglected by its owner but still functional. He let fly with the leg and charged just as he saw the first glint of metal. The man shielded himself from the projectile with his free hand, but by the time he raised his gun Orin was upon him, grabbing his arm, turning, grasping the gun by the slide and violently twisting his wrist back. He cried out in pain as he lost his grip and Orin let go of his arm, elbowing him in the back of the head before pivoting around, grabbing him by the collar and kicking his legs out from underneath him. The man fell to his back and Orin brought the butt of the gun down, pistol-whipping him twice for good measure.

As Orin turned the gun on the last man he held up his hands, cowering. "Don't shoot, don't shoot! I don't know anything!"

Orin flicked the barrel to the side, gesturing. "Get out of here. Leave the briefcase."

He nodded, sprinting towards the rear offices and disappearing.

Orin stood there for a few seconds, aiming at the last point he saw him and listening to the silence of the warehouse before finally lowering the gun. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, turning back to the people strewn across the floor, the hole in the skylight, and the second case that had fallen in with him. Ejecting the magazine, he pulled back the slide, letting the round fall out before pulling the weapon apart. The pieces clattered across the ground, and he pocketed some of the more important components for later disposal. There was no point in leaving it for them to pick up again, he reasoned.

Retrieving the cases, he slipped outside, heading down side paths away from prying eyes.

 

\-----

 

"Yeah, it's me. Orin."

Orin sat on his cot in a sparsely-furnished concrete-walled room, holding his scroll with one hand and still bothering to look at it every so often despite the "AUDIO ONLY" across its display. "Yeah, I found it." He glanced up at the two briefcases, standing beside each other on a nicked wooden table. "There was a problem, though. We... fell through a skylight. Ended up crashing a Ten Brothers trade going on." He paused, rolling his neck experimentally. "I'm a little bruised, but I think I can sleep it off, thanks for asking. On the plus side, now you've got two briefcases. Yeah, I think so too. ...no, you don't have to- no, hey, listen. I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't gotten tackled out a window, okay? It was completely by accident, it was my fault, and-" He let out a quiet laugh. "Okay, but it's your money. I'll leave 'em where we planned. Right. Keep in touch, Fox."

With a tap he hung up and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. After some time - he didn't know how much - he found himself dialing a second number. A few seconds later there was a beep as the line was picked up on the other end. "Hi. I'm doing fine here, everything is okay." He sniffled, and a glob of blood dripped onto his shirt. Frowning, he plucked at the fabric, looking down at the new stain. "No, I'm just a little congested, that's all. So how are things? Yeah? She watching the shop? Good." He blinked. "Oh, yeah, same guy. Heavy lifting, mechanical labor, stuff like that. Don't worry, I'll stay out of trouble. Yeah. Yeah, I know. Love you too, ma. Goodbye."

Orin sighed as he hung up, falling back onto the cot. "I've really stepped in it this time..."


	2. Porfirio Quijano

It wasn't until she looked at Porfirio that the olive-skinned teen realized that he hadn't been paying attention to a word she said.

She was, like him, a child of a politician - elected, not born into it like his father was - and he assumed correctly that she was the product of a private school education rather than a formal tutor, like he. Thus he rather mistakenly assumed that she had a complex, well-rounded set of interests and they could talk of things like economics, politics, or preferably old novels.

What really happened was that she rambled on about what happened in the most recent episodes of some television show about a time-traveling wizard.

When the time suddenly came to reply, he mustered up as interested a look as he could manage. "It sounds like a fascinating show." Apologetically he added, "oh, but if you'll excuse me; I need to confer with my father about something."

"Oh, sure." If she had noticed anything odd she didn't act the part. "Go ahead."

He gave her a polite bow. "By your leave."

It was rude of him, perhaps, but at the very least it was diplomatic, and he should be nothing if not that. As he crossed the palace ballroom full of dignitaries, representatives, and the occasional corporate interest, he was reminded of the importance of diplomacy, of putting forth a good impression for the world on the behalf of your nation and its people. It was a lesson he picked up readily, without his father's assistance, though what that meant was unfortunately a point of contention between them.

At the far end of the room, speaking with a man in the formal military attire of a Gallican officer, was a mustached, heavy-set man, dressed in the ceremonial attire of the Duke of Castille. As the officer departed, then man turned to greet him, smiling. "Ah, Porfirio! How are things? Been getting along with the guests?"

"Of course, though finding common ground has been a bit difficult."

"Well, that's to be expected. We are a dying breed, my son." His father put his hand on his shoulder as he spoke. "The age of royalty began to fade with the end of Imperial Vale. But you mustn't forget that as long as our bloodline endures, we have a duty to uphold to our country."

"Yes, father. If I may excuse myself and turn in early; it has been a long day for me."

 

\-----

 

Porfirio's room was atypical for one his age, looking more like a small study than any place an eighteen-year-old might reside. The only digital devices in the room were a television and a scroll, both only seeing occasional use next to a bottle of Gallican wine. Much of the walls were taken up by bookshelves, themselves a cross-section of his interests and development: Tales of daring-do and adventure, between which were books on philosophy and rule of law and, with a sudden shift, the history of various cults and underground organizations of Remnant. Sequestered to a shelf of their own were several tomes, older and more distinct, obtained at some cost over the years by Porfirio personally.

He locked the door before clearing the table in the center of the room, folding up the tablecloth and draping it over the back of a chair. The surface was covered with chalk dust and faint lines, and he ran one hand over it, wiping it clean before heading to the side of his bed, kneeling and pulling a small chest out from underneath it. The latch opened with a quiet click, revealing several vials and sticks of chalk, their contents and surfaces glittering with the unmistakable shine of Dust.

Retrieving one of the stick of chalk, he returned to the table, tracing out a medium-sized circle inlaid with a series of geometric patterns. After taking a few seconds to double-check his work he returned to the chest, depositing the chalk and picking up a small can of soil and a folded map of the island of Castille. Unfolding and placing the map in the center of the table, he lightly dusted it with the earth, setting the can down on the floor before pressing both palms against the wooden surface and closing his eyes.

The chalk lines began to glow a pale yellow-white, the air in the room going still as the grains of earth slid across the map, parting in a circle above a singular location. As Porfirio raised his hands the glow abated, and he gently pulled the map to him for a better look.

The encircled location was near the coast, a short drive from yet too close to the manor. Porfirio gave the map a shake to scatter the circle before setting it down and heading for the window. He threw on a high-collared frock coat and picked up the rectangular violin case from the foot of his bed, pressing one hand against the secret hatch in the back to ensure everything was in place. Nodding to himself, he opened the window, slipping out into the evening.

 

\-----

 

His path lead him to an old Castillan naval fortification, ruined by age and bombardment; too broken to attract tourist attention yet too important to the nation's history to destroy. It was set some distance from the road away from the lights, a mass of shadows beneath the waning moon.

Porfirio pressed his fingers against the case's hatch. It opened quietly and he reached in, grasping the hilt of a sword. As he drew it out the handguard unfolded and the tip slid into place from between the split upper half, coming together to form a single, solid espada ropera forged of Gallican steel. He stuck it point-first into the ground, laying the case down and opening it to reveal a belt covered in pouches and loops, filled with vials of Dust-filled concoctions and sticks of chalk, laid in an indentation in the foam inside and surrounded by more vials and chalk. Strapping on the belt, he closed the case again, taking up his sword and heading for the fort.

He pinched a bit of chalk off one of the sticks at this belt, crumbling it between gloved fingers before running them along both sides of the blade. Near the hilt he traced a few lines with his finger and a second later the blade glowed with a brilliant light, devouring the darkness nearby and illuminating the weathered stone as he entered the structure.

He passed silently through the rooms and halls, pausing after every few steps to listen for the sound of anything over the quiet wind coming in from the sea. Pausing beneath an empty doorway, his light fell upon a span of land extending towards a low earthwork wall lined with weather-worn cannons and, beyond that, the open sea, the only other illumination coming from a tipped-over electric lamp in the distance. Drawing another stick of chalk from his belt he knelt down, drawing a circle filled with crossed lines and simple geometric patterns. He pressed two fingers to the center of it for a moment, drawing them away as his ears picked up the sound of something clicking against stone nearby.

Porfirio exited the fort, sword at the ready in one hand, the other hovering above his belt. Beyond the light something was approaching, though he couldn't tell from where or - more importantly - how many. Scattered around he could make out glinting points of crimson in the distance, winking in and out as they grew closer until finally one of their number, a Beowulf, approached, near enough that he could make out the bone-white shell protruding from its skull before it charged.

Its paws thudded against the ground as it ran and, snarling, it hurled itself through the air at Porfirio. He juked to the side, swinging his blade up in the hopes of scoring a hit, and was rewarded as it met resistance. The tip traced a line through the side of the beast and coated his blade in ichor, dulling the light. The Beowulf landed uneasily, turning as the young noble drew a vial from his belt. He whipped it at the ground as he averted his eyes, the glass shattering and releasing a bright flash of light. Stunned, the beast recoiled, and in the lingering illumination Porfirio lunged, driving his blade into its neck.

Porforio turned; its packmates, three of them, were closing in. A fourth came from within the fort, though no sooner did it cross the threshold than the markings on the floor erupted into flame, instantly consuming it. It let out a howl of agony as it sailed through the air, tumbling to the ground and writhing in pain as its packmates took a step back. In the moment of respite he raised his sword, sizing them up as his fingers brushed against the vials and chalk, his mind turned towards gaining whatever advantage he could.

The first and largest charged, then a second. As the first made a lunge for him he dove and spun out of the way, coming up again as the second closed in. As its teeth glinted in the light he raised his sword, lancing it through the jaw, its momentum driving its head up the blade. Pulling out another vial he threw it towards the third, who dodged it effortlessly. The vial shattered harmlessly, but in an instant the stonework around its point of impact twisted, jagged shards of rock erupting from the ground around it. The beast yelped in pain as its legs were impaled, then with a whimper fell silent as its body was pierced by sharpened stone.

As the lead Beowulf circled around for another attack Porfirio worked his blade free of its packmate's body, letting it slump to the ground. He stepped back, turning to face the beast as it charged and lunged again. Bracing himself, he raised his sword to intercept its fangs, leaning into the blow as his boots slid along the ground from the force of the attack. Its jaws bit down on the handguard, gnawing away as Porfirio struggled to keep his sword between him and the beast. Reaching behind him, he drew his athame from the sheath at his back, sinking it into the Beowulf's throat. He felt the beast spasm as he wrenched the blade downward, blood spilling down the knife onto his hand and, with a grunt, shoved it to the side, letting it drop to the ground.

The air was heavy with an uneasy silence, and Porfirio stood still, straining his ears for any further threats while he caught his breath. After a minute he stuck his sword point-first into the ground, fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping the blood from his hand and athame before re-sheathing it and taking up his blade again. Turning his attention towards the lantern he strode towards it, kneeling down to investigate.

Beneath the lantern was a half-burned shipping manifest. The contents were gone, leaving only the name of the ship - the Kurtz - and it's final port of call, Port Ober.

"Well," Porfirio said. "This bears looking into."


	3. Aoto Kakure

A manila folder slid into the light and he opened it, pale blue eyes beneath short dark forelocks scanning the page, committing the photographs to memory.

"Your first objective is this man. Familiarize yourself with him. Ensure his safety, and see that he returns to his country alive."

"Quijano," he said quietly.

"Of Castille. Only royalty, but still important."

With spread fingertips he moved the papers aside to reveal a photo of a young woman.

"Your second objective is this woman."

"The traitor."

"Yes. She will try to kill him. Eliminate her."

Another set of pages moved aside, another array of photographs.

"Finally, there are these men. The Ten Dragon Triad. Their grip on the region runs contrary to our interests. Eliminate as many heads as you can without compromising your first and second objectives."

"Protect the boy, kill the girl, eliminate the Triad," he repeated. "Understood."

"Good fortune, Aoto."

"Good fortune, spymaster."

 

\-----

 

The Triad guard pushed the airplane's door open, stepping into a cargo bay bathed in red light and filled with pallets of discrete boxes. Reaching into his jacket pocket he produced a pack of cigarettes, sliding one out with a flick of his wrist and taking it between his lips. He sat down, resting his machine pistol on the seat beside him before pulling out his lighter and lighting his cigarette. He took a long pull, blowing out a stream of smoke as he listened to the hum of the engines.

The lights in the cargo bay suddenly flickered and died, and the guard let out a low curse. He glanced to the side towards the open door; it was brighter though not by much, the only illumination coming from the moon outside the windows. As he wondered if the craft would stay in the air, a length of sharpened steel quietly ripped through his throat, blood spilling down his chest as his body went limp.

The compartment beyond the door had rows of seats on either side, occupied solely by two Triads having a largely one-sided conversation about recent movies. The first would speak at length about one issue or another he had with them, the other would offer a few words, and the process would continue. As the first finished an animated monologue about frequently-used, wooden actors, he listened expectantly for his comrade's reply. Asking after him, he peered into the darkness, when something slid up through the underside of his jaw and into his brain pan.

Beyond that were two smaller rooms on either side of a narrow staircase leading up. Both held several bunks with six men total occupying them, all asleep. None would wake again.

The door at the top of the stairs opened and a beam of light cut through the darkness. A guard descended, flashlight in hand, asking for the two men in the compartment, anyone, to reply. He made mention of the pilot reporting an electrical problem just before he was dragged into the side room, his arm pulled up and a blade stabbed into his armpit and through his lung. He was gently laid down on the floor out of sight, quietly drowning on his own blood as his flashlight clicked off.

Up the stairs was a small kitchenette meant for stewardesses before the plane's interior remodeling, leading to a small section of first-class seats. A curtain lead to a hallway down one side of the plane, two sliding doors set along its length and, standing near each of them, an armed figure. A flashlight shone on the curtain for a few moments before lowering towards the ground, then half-turning back against the wall. The cloth was flung aside, and a split-second later the guard's torso was ripped open in a long, bloody gash. As he fell the second spun, light falling on top of him, unable to draw a bead on what was moving before a blade ran through his chest. Beside him the door slid open, and a third looked out in time to receive a sharpened throwing spike through the neck. He stumbled back, arms groping across the table, scattering ivory tiles before slumping to the ground.

The last room in the plane was a luxurious private cabin for its owner, himself guarded by two other Triads. He was middle-aged, short-haired, and not quite sober, though still lucid and experienced enough to be on his guard. None of his men had reported in, and he no longer suspected that what had happened was a mere mechanical failure. So they waited, weapons at the ready, aiming at the far end of the room.

As the door was flung open they opened fire, bullets chewing up the far walls. Within seconds their guns had run dry, and as the guards shone their lights across the room they fell on an indistinct form, darting towards them. The owner and his men made moves to reload, only for the men to be cut down in short order. As the owner reached for another magazine a blade lanced through his hand, pinning it to the seat, and he let out a pained cry as he reached for it.

"Don't move."

He froze, staring into the darkness. There was something - some _one_ \- in front of him. He knew this; he heard someone speak, but his eyes couldn't tell where the shadows ended and they began.

"Birdman Wo."

"The fuck you want?" Wo hissed.

A photo dropped into his lap and a thin cone of light shone down on it, revealing a young, short-haired woman. "Satsuki Sarutobi."

"Never saw her." The figure twisted the blade, and Wo let out a strangled cry through gritted teeth. "Alright, alright! Fuck!" He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. "She just showed up at my place a few days ago, asking me for help finding this guy she was looking for."

"Who?"

"I don't know, some burnie. She told me that he was headed for Ober so I told her to meet with Big Eyes Yin. That's all I saw of her, I swear!" The blade slid out, and he cradled his hand, glancing down at his dead guards. "So that's it, right? We cool?"

The tip of the blade pressed against his throat.

"No."

 

\-----

 

The loss of interior lights was discovered to be due to deliberate sabotage in the rear of the plane. The only survivors found on board were the pilot and co-pilot, who claimed no knowledge of what happened. An attempt was made by the leaders of the Ten Brothers Triad to pin the act on the pilots, but the official investigation by the Ober Port Authority proved inconclusive and cooler heads amongst the Triad leadership prevailed.


	4. Argent

The rubber raft cut through the water, piloted by its sole occupant. Behind him lay the port, beginning to disappear below the horizon. Ahead of him lay a cargo ship - the Beaumarchais - gliding through the sea, a dark silhouette illuminated by the waning moon above, and despite the calm of the evening there was a heavy silence in the air.

Had there been anyone to see the pilot of the craft, they would not have been remiss to think him some sort of soldier, with dark, heavy clothing and boots, a battle-worn plated vest, and a harness upon which hung small pouches and a folded-up mass of machinery on his back. Yet he was barely out of his childhood, still fresh-faced despite his tired eyes and grey hair.

As he pulled up beside the cargo ship he lifted up a small electromagnet, clamping it onto the side of the hull. He raised one hand, adjusting his headset as he looked up. "Gill," he asked, "how far out are we?"

"In international waters," an older man replied. "Don't expect assistance from the port authority; they have no jurisdiction this far out."

"But they know they've boarded the ship."

"Naturally, though they can't admit to knowing."

"...and they can't do anything about it because they don't want to tip their hand that they have informants inside the local White Fang cells."

"Of course. Why else would you be there?"

"As an 'anonymous third party' who warned them of what was happening and got them to dock at Ober," he replied, mounting the ladder on the side of the ship. "Isn't that going to be the official story?"

"Only so it won't be hijacked by the White Fang and targeted for piracy by the flotilla sixty miles away."

"So why can't he tell some other country to track down and bomb the flotilla?"

"It doesn't quite work that way, I'm afraid. These things take time."

He let out a quiet note of frustration as he climbed.

"If it's any consolation, Argent, preventing the rifles that ship is carrying from getting into their hands makes your life easier as well."

 

\-----

 

The deck of the vessel was stacked with shipping crates, forming two rows of alleys leading to a square ring in the center. As Argent climbed on deck one hand instinctively went to the handlebar on the mass on his back, fingers touching it lightly as he scanned the area. He moved silently but quickly, staying out of sight of the bridge, leaning forward and peeking around corners before continuing on his trip to the other side of the craft.

Scanning the far railing he spotted a pair of ropes hanging off the far side and, leaning over, spotted a small craft moored against the hull of the container ship below. "It's a small craft," he said. "Maybe four or five people at most."

"They should know from experience that's not enough to control a single ship of this size," Gill said.

Argent looked pointedly at one of the square tread plate hatches set into the deck. "Especially if it's a Vulcan ship. The security system would-" He paused. "Gill, where's the server room located?"

"One moment." Then, he said, "belowdecks, second level, beneath the bridge."

He nodded, sprinting across the deck. As he passed by a cargo container the side of the bridge came into view, a door hatch on the side left open. Entering, he passed into the nearby stairwell and looked up through the stairs. The door above was still sealed.

"You believe they have the means to shut off the security?"

"Worse," he replied, descending.

 

\-----

 

It was a simple matter of following signs and open doors until he found the server room, little different in construction from the rest of the ship but for the metal racks bolted to the floor and covered in computer parts, themselves connected by passably neat bundles of cords. Argent made no motion to stop and investigate, instead charging past and through the open door on the opposite side of the room, coming across a half-dozen White Fang members in uniforms and masks scaling the staircases up and out.

Their hesitation was brief, but sufficient. Argent pulled a folded steel tool from his belt and with a flick of his wrist it unfolded thrice, two parts forming a long haft and the third stopping at an angle to form an axe. With an overhead chop he sank it into the shin of the figure closest to him, and the man barely had a chance to cry out before Argent's other hand was around his ankle, yanking him off the steep stairs and sending him falling back-first to the metal hull.

"Forget him, he's gone!" a voice echoed from above, footsteps fading.

Argent glanced behind him before approaching the lone man, reaching into one of his pouches and producing a set of handcuffs. As he reached for a nearby pipe to pull himself up Argent snapped the cuff on his wrist, closing the other half around the pipe. Fumbling behind his back the man drew his weapon, but as he swung it forward to bring it to bear Argent tossed his axe to his free hand, catching the rifle by the foregrip and stomping on his sternum as he twisted it out of his grasp.

With a flick of his wrist he folded up his axe, replacing it as he returned to the server room. Over his headpiece he heard Gill say, "talk to me, Argent."

"I got one. The rest are running."

"You're not going after them?"

"They did their damage." His eyes scanned the monitors, trying to pick out any information. "'IFF update.' They're making sure the turrets don't fire on them." He turned to the handcuffed White Fang member. "That's it, isn't it?"

The man glowered back at him. "Fuck you!"

"It could still fire at someone when it pulls into port." He gave the servers a once-over; his eyes fell on an out-of-place thumb drive, and he pocketed it. "What do these usually control?"

"Navigation," Gill began, "security systems, communications-"

"Do ships normally have a backup radio?"

"Yes."

Argent took a step back and opened fire, sweeping the barrel across the computers. Sparks flew and lights flickered, then blinked out as circuitry was chewed up by bullets. As the gun clicked dry he let it drop, well out of reach of the man.

A moment later Gill said, "they've put out a distress call. The port authority's picked up their signal."

He nodded, heading for the far stairwell. As he left the White Fang member shouted, "hey, where the fuck are you going? You can't just leave me here!"

"When they find him," Argent said, scaling the steep steps, "they'll assume it was part of a hijacking gone wrong. He made a mistake, so they left him here."

"Anything else?"

"I found a flash drive in the computers. The program they used is probably on it. I'll pass it off to you the next time we meet."

They both lapsed into silence as Argent made his escape, running across the deck before sliding down the ladder. As he detached the magnet he announced, "I'm at the boat. Heading out now."

"Argent."

"Yes?"

"You didn't chase after them when they left. That was very restrained of you. I'm impressed."

A faint smile crossed Argent's lips. "Thank you, sir."


	5. Chapter 5

Port Ober was, at its inception, little more than a small fort and a few docks, built to discourage piracy and guide and serve vessels on their routes past the peninsula. As trade developed more people stayed, gradually transforming it into a permanent settlement. Homes, businesses and warehouses were connected by a knot of highways, paths trampled into the dirt over centuries, then reinforced with concrete and asphalt. As the town grew into a city its citizens and planners imposed some semblance of order on its development, plotting out grids of roads and blocks of buildings that spread from the docks inward, across the peninsula and towards the mainland. As human habitation neared the wilderness the citizens learned all to quickly that theirs was too large to not be a tempting target for the Grimm, and so the wall was built. With no other direction to go, Ober grew up, its roads and alleys in tight canyons of concrete and steel.

It was an unusual sight for Porfirio, not because of its size, but because of its overwhelming modernity: Even in the most developed parts of Gallica and Castille there were still remnants of the olden days left standing as a reminder of the nations' pasts. Here, however, the oldest structure was an Alarian temple, and even traditional-looking buildings were newly designed. Porfirio would have like to have seen if things were different in the less urbanized parts of Ober, but despite what he told his father, it wasn't a sightseeing trip.

The second day of his search, he finally uncovered the Kurtz, resting in an obscure part of Ober's innumerous docks. It was a small feeder ship that ran coastal trade in the region, though nothing nearly as distant as Castille. Indeed, the GPS showed that they were docked at a distant harbor and had been for quite some time when Porfirio encountered the Grimm. He asked if the GPS signal could be faked or mislead somehow, and one of the men at the docks looked at him oddly but replied that, while it may not be _plausible_ , it was certainly _possible_ , though for what reason he couldn't fathom. Actually boarding the ship to investigate was out of the question at the moment so, for the time, Porfirio thanked them and took their leave.

He lingered outside the docks for a bit, examining the area and trying to formulate a plan to enter unseen later before departing, choosing to bide his time laying low in town. He was well-dressed but not ostentatious, his coat and a wide-brimmed hat over slacks and a vest which, combined with his violin case, made him look like a musician on tour. At least that was the plan.

"A musician."

Which seemed to have worked.

"Yes." Porfirio turned to face the speaker, an expressionless young man about his own age. At first he mistook him for a local, but upon closer inspection he was just as foreign as Porfirio was - his eyes were angled upward, and his his face was too long. "I'm on a bit of a tour."

"Violinist?"

"Yes. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alonso Amatista."

"Gallican?"

"Castillan."

He gave a light nod. "Does your father know you're here?"

"I believe we're both mature enough to take care of ourselves."

Porfirio took a moment to size the newcomer up. He was perhaps two or three inches shorter than he, in a deep blue short jacket, a similarly-shaded scarf loosely coiled around his neck, and a light shirt and pants. Much of his outfit was a camouflage pattern in deep shades; not black, but dark enough to make it hard to tell where the shadows ended and a person began.

He wasn't one to question fashion, but there was something suspect about the flat holsters beneath his jacket and the simple thick rod at his hip. Being armed wasn't the issue - most people were, including Porfirio himself - but what you were armed _with_ said a lot about what you were armed _against_ , and he didn't look at all prepared to fight Grimm.

"Does your father know _why_ you're here?"

"I... can't help but feel you have me confused with someone else."

"You have yourself confused with someone else, Porfirio."

He slowly moved the case, positioning his hand above the hatch in the back. "You have me at a disadvantage, it seems."

"My apologies." He bowed deeply. "I am Aoto Kakure. Someone is after your life."

"I'm assuming it isn't you," he replied, "else you're far more confident or far less clever than most assassins."

Aoto gave a slight shake of his head. "You need to return home."

"But that I could; unfortunately the security of my homeland is at stake."

"Leave it to your country's government."

"I _am_ my country's government." Porfirio relaxed, returning the case to his side. "In title, if nothing else."

His expression softened, ever so slightly, turning to concern. "Someone means to kill you. You understand this."

"I do, but someone also has the means to threaten my home in a way that was heretofore impossible. I have a duty to my country to uphold, and I can't just return and leave the problem in someone else's hands."

Aoto stood in silence for a few seconds before his expression hardened again, and he gave Porfirio another light nod. "Very well. Explain."

"Perhaps not out in the open, if I am being hunted." He pointed down the street to a restaurant. "There. Hopefully my assassin isn't prone to public appearances."

 

\-----

 

Orin was not a private person, but he understood the importance of privacy. Doubly so when in a foreign country, and especially so when you spent much of your time doing things that would anger the locals. This was a fact that his employer was well aware of as well, and to that end Orin was provided with a very out-of-the-way residence. It was a bit austere, but it had a cot, a television, room to cook, and incognito network access, and that was all Orin really needed.

The closed-circuit cameras, barred metal door and secret passage didn't hurt, though.

He looked up from his magazine as the silent alarm went off, checking the monitors to see a figure standing outside the hidden door. He looked up at a camera that he had no business knowing was there before pulling a piece of paper and a pen out of his pouch, writing something down, and holding it up for Orin to see.

"the fox sent me"

Gill said he was sending someone "young, but reliable." Orin didn't expect him to be quite _that_ young however, and regardless he wasn't expecting him to be so... thick. He would need to be, upon reflection, considering he was carrying around what Orin assumed was a folded-up siege axe on his back like it wasn't even there. Presumably he knew how to use it, which was both reassuring and a bit unsettling.

Tossing the magazine aside, Orin crossed the safe room, unbarring the door and entering the area beyond. He pressed a button beside the false wall, and it slid in and to the side with the quiet hum of electric motors, revealing the guest in person.

His eyes met Orin's. "Orin Falconer?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm Argent. The Fox sent me."

"I saw." He craned his neck up, looking into the room behind Argent. "Anyone follow you?"

"No."

Orin nodded, gesturing for him to enter before closing the door behind him. "Can I get you anything? Soda, sandwich?"

"No thanks. What do you need me to do?"

He opened his mouth to respond before closing it again, looking at Argent oddly. "Right to business, huh? You're trusting."

"Gill trusts you, so I trust you."

"Wow." He gave a light shrug. "Okay, sure. Well, word is the Ten Brothers Triad is gearing up to make a move on a few smaller gangs. Alari knows why, but it's got the little guys worried enough that they're actually approaching the White Fang for an alliance."

"They'd never agree to that."

"No kidding." He headed back into the safe room, Argent following behind, and picked up a white long-sleeved shirt from the back of his chair. "The strange thing is, the White Fang's been really quiet recently."

"They've been raiding the Ten Brothers." Something on the table caught his eye, and he frowned. "What is _that?_ " he asked, his voice suddenly accusatory.

Orin turned as he pulled the shirt on, following his line of sight to the White Fang mask. "Oh, that? Camouflage, and the reason why the Ten Brothers gave up on calling a truce with the White Fang before their power grab." He gave Argent a knowing smile. "Damnedest thing. You wear that and it's the only thing people see."

Argent absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, feeling the scars on his scalp. "A false flag operation."

"That's what it's called? Huh." He tucked in his shirt, leaving it half-buttoned above the T-shirt beneath. "Anyway, Gill knows what the Ten Brothers are up to, which leaves the White Fang, which..." He gave a light shrug. "Didn't encounter them much. I'm guessing you're an expert on them."

"Something like that."

"Alright, so we need to find a doggie." He picked up his gauntlets, hooking them onto the back of his belt. "Preferably a high-ranking one. Any leads?"

"A couple."


	6. Chapter 6

Porfirio slid the half-burned shipping manifest across the table of the bar, between a glass of wine and a tumbler of tonic water. "I found this near the shores of my home after fending off a pack of Beowulves."

Aoto scanned the document for a few seconds before sliding it back. "This was obviously a trap." His voice was measured; loud enough to hear over other conversations but still quiet.

"That goes without saying."

"Foolish."

"Perhaps. But whoever placed this there knew me well enough that I could be expected to find it, and has the ability to either summon or transport Grimm. The former is mere intrigue; the latter is heretofore impossible."

"They weren't local."

"Definitely not. Castille is an island; any Grimm within its borders would have to fly there, either circumventing Gallica or braving the anti-air at its borders. I've fought against avians that slipped past, but these were new."

"By yourself."

"Yes." He took a sip of his wine. "I already know what you're going to ask. Yes, I aspire to become a Huntsman in the future."

"Your father doesn't know."

Porfirio hesitated. "Not exactly, no. He's aware of my aspirations, but not-" He gestured, indicating himself and where he was. "-the practices."

"What would he have you do?"

"Remain in Castille and inherit his title. Which is simply that; a title with no real power behind it any longer. He talks of noblesse oblige, of having a duty to our country and its people, but there's more to that than just being a figurehead. It's setting an example through actions and helping those who cannot help themselves."

"Have you made any enemies by this?"

"None that I'm aware of."

"Any siblings?"

"They wouldn't refuse the title, but they're not that eager for the position. Were it in my power, I would let one of them have it." Porfirio leaned in a bit, his expression a mixture of curiosity and accusation. "You don't suspect my family, do you?"

"Only concerned. I was ordered to see you return home safely, but having you die there would be pointless."

He leaned back, saying nothing.

"I did not mean to offend you."

He nodded. "Regardless, the questions remain: Why here, of all places, and how were the Grimm brought to where they were?" Porfirio thought for a few seconds. "If I might ask a boon of you. Have you any skill in, say, infiltration or spying?"

"A bit."

"Would it be asking too much if I asked of you to enter the Kurtz and search for a few things? Chains, tranquilizers, any strange devices in the hold, records of where the ship went?"

"I am here to keep you alive and return you home." A beat. "But if you had this information, you would be more likely to return on your own."

"That's an odd way of justifying it."

"Am I incorrect?"

"Not at all." He picked up his wine glass. "Though you may want to smile when you say things such as that, lest people get the wrong idea."

 

\-----

 

There was a knock at the door before it swung open, the Triad member behind it leaning into an elaborate office. "Mister Yin."

From his seat behind his desk, a well-built middle-aged man with thick glasses glanced up at him, continuing to write on a pad of paper. "What is it? I'm busy."

"There is a girl here to see you."

"Send her away. I didn't call for one."

"She says she has information on the murder of Birdman Wo."

Yin stopped, setting his pen down. After a second of silence he pushed himself away from his desk and stood. "Send her in."

The Triad nodded, pushing the door open and gesturing. A short-haired young woman entered, dressed in dark clothing, crossed swords on her back and a coiled chain ending in a metal claw hanging from her side. "Big Eyes Yin," she said, smiling. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Who are you and what do you know about Wo's death?"

"Right to the point, I see." She strode towards his desk. "The name is Sarutobi." Reaching into the folds of her clothing, she produced a photograph of a young man, olive-skinned and well-dressed, and set it down on the desk in front of Yin. "...and I'm looking for this man. I managed to track him down to Ober. He's a gambler, and he's good, but he's a better cheat. My bosses lost a lot of money because of him, and they want to make an example out of him." She smiled. "You understand, right?"

"I understand you're wasting my time. You haven't told me what he has to do with Wo."

Sarutobi pulled out another photo of a person, dark hair and pale blue eyes, and dropped it in front of Yin with a flick of the wrist. "He hired the one who killed Wo to protect him," she said matter-of-factly. "We both want one of these two out of the way, so what say we work together and take care of them both?"

"You scratch my back, I scratch yours."

"Exactly."

Yin nodded. "So what reason do I have to believe anything you say?"

"Well, for starters..." Another gesture, and she drew out and placed a plastic card on his desk. "...I'm willing to pay you ten thousand lien up front for your time. Don't worry, it's an anonymous account. Secondly... did the police release any detailed information about Birdman Wo's murder to the public?"

"Nothing."

"But _you_ know. No signs of struggle, single stabs and cuts to vital areas. Nobody saw it coming. That's how she works. People hired her to take out a lot of gangsters, so she's gotten good at it." She shrugged. "Maybe she'll come after you next. There's certainly a precedent."

Yin coldly stared at her. After some thought he said, "fine. I'll send the word out." He tapped a finger on the photos. "If they poke their heads out they're as good as dead."

She bowed. "That's very kind of you. If anything turns up, don't worry; I'll keep in touch."

"Of course." Sarutobi turned, heading for the door, and the Triad held it open for her. "It's been a pleasure."

As she departed, Yin gestured to the Triad, who stepped into the office and shut the door behind him. Crossing the room, he circled around to the side of Yin's desk, leaning in and waiting for him to speak.

"Find him," Yin said, holding up the photo of the olive-skinned young man. "Bring him in alive."

"You don't want him dead?"

"That _sha bi_ must think we're idiots, lying to us like that. This burnie is royalty. Kill his escort, but keep him in one piece. If she's not lying about that part, we'll get revenge for Wo while we're at it."

 

\-----

 

The building was nondescript, nestled between several taller abandoned offices and only accessible through narrow, sinuous alleys, half of which were blocked by fences and dumpsters that couldn't have possibly fit through the alleys to begin with. Nearby was a sewer grate, the handle on it widened with a saw by a third party to make it easier to lift. Orin assumed it was for a quicker escape; he didn't need to ask for whom.

Orin leaned out from behind the corner as little as he could to see, scanning the exterior before looking back at Argent. "This the place?"

"Yes," Argent replied.

He turned back towards the building, nodding at something outside. "Camera. Above the door. Probably a bad idea for both of us to show up together."

"What are you planning?"

"Knock on the front door, go in, find the leader, bash him over the head, fight my way out, and bring him somewhere for questioning."

"Do you know the inside?"

"No, but I'm good at improvising. Why, do you?"

"I've been here before; there should be roof access. I'll go in from the top floor. We'll meet in the middle."

"Sounds like a plan."

"You only need the highest-ranking member alive, right?"

Orin opened his mouth to reply before closing it again, looking at him oddly. "I said 'fight my way out,' not 'murder everyone in the building.'"

A faint flicker of disapproval crossed Argent's face before his expression returned to normal, and he nodded. "Keep them alive. I understand." He turned and walked away, drawing his switch axe from his belt and flicking it open. Stopping beneath a nearby fire escape he jumped up, hooking the axe on the end of the ladder before pulling it down and scaling it.

Orin watched him climb up and out of view before drawing the White Fang mask from his pocket, sliding it into place. Walking away, he muttered, "Alari above, Gill, what did you foist off on me _this_ time?"

He sized up the entrance as inconspicuously as possible as he approached, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Whoever worked on it tried very hard to make it look like just another door while simultaneously fortifying it as much as reasonably possible. It was wood, at least from one side, but the heavy screws and sliding hatch were dead giveaways that whoever put it there wanted privacy and security in equal measure. It also meant that kicking it down was out of the question - that was the sort of mistake you only made once.

Glancing up at the camera, he knocked on the door. A few seconds later the hatch slid open and a severe-looking lop-eared faunus looked out at him. "The hell you doing out there like that?"

"Hey man," Orin said, "let me in."

"Are you retarded, wearing that outside?"

"I just put it on when I showed up. Do I look like an idiot?"

"The Triad is up our ass as it is. We don't need them following you here."

"Right, fine, I'm sorry. Just let me in before anyone sees me."

The faunus shook his head as he rolled his eyes. "Fucking newbies. Let me just-" He froze. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"Ssh!" He looked up towards the ceiling, and a few seconds later his ears twitched. "There, that! The hell is going on up there?" After a moment his eyes widened and he whipped back to face Orin. "You dumb motherfucker!" he snarled. "Someone followed you here!" Before Orin could respond he snapped the hatch shut and a muffled shout of, "we've got intruders!" came through the door.

An uneasy silence followed, punctuated by a few rounds of gunfire and barely audible thumps. That they kept happening was reassuring, in its own way, but it didn't stop Orin from running ideas for a Plan B through his head. If Argent died or was captured the odds were good that they'd assume he was in on it, and they'd inevitably open the door to either blame him, try to kill him, or some combination of the two.

His thoughts were interrupted when a window on the floor above him shattered, and he looked up to see the lop-eared faunus from before sail out, hitting the ground in a heap as his assault rifle clattered on the concrete beside him. As he curled up into a little ball groaning in pain, Orin walked over to him, watching him writhe for a bit before knocking him out with a boot to the skull. "Least the kid's doing well for himself," he said, picking up the rifle.

A minute or two later, as he was inspecting the weapon, he heard the bars on the door slide free. It swung outward, revealing Argent, smears of blood on his face, carrying an unconscious body over his shoulder. As his eyes fell on Orin he tensed up, reaching for his belt.

Orin whipped off the White Fang mask, holding his hands up. "Woah! It's me." He pointed. "That the guy?"

Argent relaxed as he nodded. "Everyone is alive."

"How about you?"

"I'm fine; my armor needs a new plate."

"Right. That, uh, your blood your face, there?"

He reached up with his free hand, touching the splatters and coming back with a thin film of crimson on his fingertips. Looking back at Orin he said, "they'll live."

"...right." In a bid to change the subject he asked, "you want me to carry him? I mean, you did all the work; it's only fair."

"Okay. Why are you holding that rifle?"

"It's from Vulcan."

Argent looked down at the gun, then back at Orin expectantly.

"Normally the White Fang uses whatever they can get their hands on, but in the past few weeks they've been using Vulcan-made weapons more and more. They've got a new supplier, whoever it is." He shrugged before stripping the rifle apart, dropping pins and springs as he worked. "I figure it's worth looking into. Best-case scenario, we've got an arms dealer on our hands. Worst-case, the White Fang have a new backer."

He nodded. "What about him?" he asked, gesturing to the body over his shoulder. There was an obvious note of disdain in his voice as he said "him."

"I know a... private room near the Sundowner Shipping lot." He approached Argent, stooping as he passed the body off to him and taking him in a fireman's carry. "Whoof. I'm sure he'll appreciate the irony."


	7. Chapter 7

The bucket of water splashed against the faunus' face and he jerked back to consciousness in the chair, sputtering as he struggled against the ropes tying his limbs to the chair.

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey."

His head snapped about, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the single funnel of light pouring down on him. The room, if he could even call it that, was more of a dingy concrete box with pipes and cables along the walls. Standing before him was a young man in an open shirt, and leaning against the door behind him was a smaller figure that he couldn't clearly make out.

"Oh good," Orin said, setting down the bucket. "I was worried you might have gotten brain damage from my friend here. Would've been a shame if you couldn't answer any of our questions."

"I don't have anything to say to you _inbreds_ ," he spat.

Orin nodded, removing one of his gauntlets from the back of his belt and sliding it into place. The plating slid out as he moved to one side of his chair, and he flexed his fingers before pulling his fist back and driving it into his sternum. The faunus doubled over, letting out a sputtering wheeze that trailed off into a fit of coughing.

"Maybe you could think of something," Orin replied. "Like what the White Fang's been up to recently." He reared back, punching him in the gut again and driving him into another coughing fit.

"Nothing," he rasped. "Not a goddamn thing."

"Course not." He began pacing around him in a slow circle. "You also wouldn't know anything about all those guns you've been using, would you?" He stopped in front of him. "I guess you must've found them on the street, right?" Orin waited a few seconds for a reply; when none came, he struck him again, and the faunus stifled a cry of pain. "You should be grateful that I'm not punching you in the face. All the head trauma would make it so you couldn't think straight and answer all these _easy questions_ I'm asking."

"Is this how humans treat faunus now?"

"We carried you out of a _terrorist safe house_ ," he snapped back. "Don't try to bring race into this."

"Orin."

Orin looked over his shoulder; in front of him the faunus' ears perked up, turning towards the source of the voice. "What," Orin asked, "you wanna take over?"

"Is that him?" His eyes peered into the darkness at the shape beside the door, a nervous tone creeping into his voice. "It can't be him. Not here."

"You're being too nice to him." There was the sound of a pouch being opened, and the glint of metal in the dark. "The White Fang are animals..."

He snapped between Orin and the voice, wide-eyed. "You couldn't be working with _him!_ "

Argent stepped into the light, stone-faced, running one finger along the edge of a combat knife. "...and all animals understand is pain."

The faunus went pale, his hands trembling as he struggled to draw breath. A series of quiet gasps emanated from his open mouth then, all at once, he began struggling frantically against his restraints, shrieking, "NO NO NO PLEASE DON'T PLEASE SOMEONE HELP! HELP ME IT'S THE MONGREL! I DON'T WANNA- I DON'T- HELP ME PLEASE, SOMEONE!!"

Orin glanced over at Argent, stunned, before composing himself and turning back to the White Fang member. "Help you?" He took a fistful of hair between his ears, holding his head still as he stared him in the eyes. "Maybe I should leave him down here with you since you're such good friends."

He gaped at Orin. "Are you insane?! Don't you know what he _does_ to people? To _us_?"

"Yeah," he lied. "The same thing he's going to do to you if you don't tell me what I want to know."

"Fine, fine, I'll do it!" His eyes flitted between Orin and Argent as he swallowed on a dry throat. "I'll tell you anything, just don't let the mongrel near me!"

"Good." He roughly let go of his hair. "Now start talking."

"The Ten Brothers are making a big push against the smaller gangs." His words were rushed, fueled by a nervous pressure. "They got money from somewhere; we don't know where. It has the gangs scared enough that they tried to get help from us."

"Did you help them?"

"No, we'd never help them. The plan is..." His mouth moved wordlessly. "I can't say."

Orin rolled his eyes, starting to turn away. "He's all yours."

"No, no no no! It's bombs! It's bombs, okay? There's going to be a gang war and the White Fang is going to plant a bomb while the cops are distracted."

"Where?"

"I don't know, I swear! It's being done by another cell!"

Orin cursed under his breath. "How about something else, like where you got your new guns?"

"They weren't sent to us. We were tipped off to the shipments."

"By who?"

"We don't know, it's an anonymous source. But he knows how to bypass the ship security. We think he's giving them to us and making it seem like we're stealing them so nobody catches on."

"You hit the Beaumarchais," Argent said.

He nodded frantically. "That's everything, I swear! Now get him away from me!"

Orin gave a casual shrug. "Well, a promise is a promise." Then, to Argent he said, "stand down. We're leaving."

Argent stared at the faunus before turning to Orin and nodding, re-sheathing his knife. He opened the door, heading out as Orin followed.

"Hey! Aren't you going to untie me?"

"Don't worry," Orin said. "Someone will be along shortly."

He flicked the light switch, and the room was plunged into darkness.

 

\-----

 

Once they were outside Orin said, "I'm not cut out for this whole 'interrogation' thing."

"That's not a bad thing," Argent replied.

"Maybe not. You, though. I heard stories about a 'mongrel.' Wouldn't have guessed it was you."

"They don't like me."

"No shit. Wha'd you do to 'em?"

"I was born."

"Yeah, they have that problem with a lotta people." He drew his scroll from his pocket. "Gill needs to know about the bombs if he doesn't already. Maybe he can figure out what they're going to go after."

Argent gestured towards the door. "What about him?"

"I'll give the police an anonymous tip. After that, what say we catch a boat?"

 

\-----

 

It was about a half hour before Aoto returned, slipping in through the rear entrance of the convenience store as the sun was beginning to set. His reappearance was not unwelcome but still surprising to Porfirio, as he had been watching the main gate of the dockyard and hadn't seen him enter or leave. As he approached, Porfirio replaced the magazine he was reading, turning his attention to him. "Did you find anything?"

"Cages."

He arched an eyebrow. "Cages? Were there any strange devices on them? Boxes of sedatives, perhaps?"

"None."

Porfirio thought for a second before glancing across the store. "Let us continue this outside. I think the cashier has reached the end of her patience with me."

Exiting the store onto the sidewalk, he resumed speaking as they walked. "What about their route? They claimed to have been in port at around the time I found the Grimm and never ventured beyond that."

"They possess a map of the Gallican coast."

"Circumstantial, but still useful. What about the GPS signal?"

Aoto gave a light shake of his head. "Unknown. My experience with computers is limited. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, you probably know more than I do. Still, it makes sense, yet at the same time not. Your findings implicate them, but even assuming you could take Grimm alive, they would waste away during transport. Something more is at work here."

"What now?"

Porfirio thought for a moment. "The boat's owner. If we trace it back, then-"

Aoto held up a hand, gesturing for him to stop as he watched something in the distance. A few seconds later a brown muscle car rolled past, turning into a fenced-off harbor and waiting for the gate to slide open before driving in. Porfirio followed it out of the corner of his eye, watching as the vehicle rolled down an incline and disappeared between a building and a stack of cargo containers.

"Someone you know?" Porfirio asked.

"Long Arm Cheng," Aoto said. "One of the Ten Brothers."

"So he's important."

"Trafficking. Firearms, drugs, people. A target of opportunity."

"'Target of opportunity?'" After a second of thought he said, "you're an assassin."

"Yes." Aoto's voice was low and even, but Porfirio could have sworn he heard a touch of concern. "Is there a problem?"

"It's odd to think that an assassin would be keeping me alive."

"Are you uncomfortable with my occupation?"

"Merely surprised. Killing is not unfamiliar territory; I have... taken lives before. In duels. Self-defense."

"Not for others' sake."

"No."

"But someday, as a Huntsman."

After a second of hesitation he said, "perhaps."

Aoto regarded him silently for a few seconds before speaking. "If I may ask a boon of you."

"What is it?"

"My secondary mission is to eliminate the Dragon Heads of the Ten Brothers Triad, should they make themselves known. My primary is to protect you. I ask your permission to be relieved of my duty, temporarily, to carry the former out."

"You want me to permit you to assassinate another man."

"Yes."

"If I refuse?"

"I remain."

"...and he lives." Perhaps unpunished, he thought. Porfirio's eyes met Aoto's again; they were obedient, expectant. He thought back to his first duel, when he was fourteen, challenged in is own home country. His opponent came at him with murderous intent, eyes burning; he saw none of that in Aoto, and yet they both had the same willingness to kill. Aoto was willing to leave on Porfirio's word and take the life of a stranger, perhaps as casually as he spoke with him.

_But someday, as a Huntsman._ Was this some sort of lesson, he thought? He did aspire to lead, and not everything Huntsmen fought were Grimm. The one who gives the order is just as responsible as the one who pulls the trigger. Both had to live with their decisions.

It was then that Porfirio began to suspect that there was something more to Aoto's presence. "Go," he finally said. "But, is there some way of contacting you should my hunter appear?"

Aoto reached into the folds of his clothing, producing a small dark cylinder with a metal button on the end. "Take this. I'll not be long."

Without another word he turned, dashing across the street, effortlessly scaling the fence before dropping down and disappearing into the compound.


	8. Chapter 8

Getting into the dockyard without being seen was relatively simple: All it took was prying open a sewer grate just outside, following the storm drain down to the waterfront, then climbing up to an adjacent yard and scaling the fence. They entered behind a row of office trailers, the faint sound of voices and motion coming from beyond. Orin glanced in either direction, pausing and gesturing to Argent behind him when he spotted a black-gloved hand smeared with blood lying just around the corner. The hand twitched as the owner let out a wet, raspy cough, a hand axe just out of its reach. Motioning for Argent to stay put, Orin slid the White Fang mask into place before quietly approaching the figure, discovering it to be a faunus in full White Fang regalia, one hand pressed against an open wound in his gut.

"Hey," Orin said, kneeling beside him, "hang in there, I'll get some help."

"Don't-" He coughed, a mist of blood coming up. "Don't bother, I can still fight."

"What happened? An ambush?"

He nodded, speaking slowly. "These were our guns. Fuckers stole them from us."

"The ship wasn't headed for this port, was it?"

"No. It was headed-" Another coughing fit. "-headed for another cell. We were a plan B. Someone stopped the first group. Probably the Mongrel, the fucker." His head slumped. "Must've told the... the Triads we were..." He trailed off, falling still and silent.

After a few seconds Orin pressed two fingers against the faunus' jugular, feeling for a pulse. Behind him Argent said, "it wasn't me or Gill."

"I know." He stood. "...and I don't think the crew is in on it." Stepping past the body he approached the corner, leaning out carefully. By the ship, partially obscured by two shipping crates, were the members of the Triad loading wooden boxes into the back of a nondescript truck, rifles slung over their shoulders. "They already helped themselves to the guns." He looked back at Argent. "I don't like our odds." As he turned back a Triad meandered into view, glancing in his direction before doing a double-take. Orin immediately pulled away, whipping off the mask as he hissed a curse under his breath. "They've spotted us. We need to go. Now."

Argent reached behind him, resting his fingers on the handle of his siege axe. "Not the fence. They'll get us before we're even over." He pointed up the side. "Head for the entrance. Stay quiet and stick to cover. When you're out, call Gill."

"What about you?" he asked. Judging from the position of Argent's hand, he didn't know why he even bothered asking.

"I'll distract them."

"'Distract,' sure," Orin muttered, heading past him and slipping around the corner. "Distract with a siege axe."

As Orin left Argent heard the Triad approach, calling back to the rest. "Over here! We forgot one!" Taking the weapon from his back he took hold of the hilt at the bottom, drawing it out. Panels and parts slid apart and opened, the entire contraption lengthening and narrowing as two curved blades at the end were exposed. With one hand in the middle and one at the end he raised it over his shoulder and, as the gangster swung around the corner, he brought it down.

Argent's siege axe was an older model, scratched and pitted from use by its previous owner and covered in bullet indentations and nicks from its current one. At some point before changing hands its ballistic component fell into unusability, leaving it solely as a melee weapon. Through practice and determination Argent wielded it competently by the age of thirteen, though the edge grew dull from use, now too rough to be called a blade.

The axe descended upon the Triad's right collar, the bone shattering from the impact and his flesh simply tearing apart and giving way from the force of the blow. As the gangster's mouth opened to scream the weapon continued downward, breaking through his ribs. As his lung was rent and collapsed, blood spilled into his airways and poured out of the wound as his arm peeled to the side. The axe's blade bit into the ground after ripping through him, his arm - still gripping his weapon - falling to one side, the man collapsing to his knees a second later on the other, a silent scream of agony on his lips as red stained his clothes and pooled beneath him. Before he was even still Argent butted him over with his shoulder and stepped over him, rounding the corner and sprinting towards his comrades.

The lack of a blade did not by any stretch make it harmless.

 

\-----

 

No sooner did Argent leave Orin's sight than the chaos began. The crack of bones, cries of agony, and gunfire, the likes of which he hadn't heard before. If Orin didn't know any better he would have assumed the Grimm had reared their heads in the middle of town. Judging from their panicked screams the Triad, meanwhile, had assumed in their confusion that the White Fang were staging a counterattack. He wasn't about to shed any tears for either of them over this misunderstanding; sayings about enemies of one's enemy may have been bullshit, but there was truth in not correcting them when they were making a mistake.

Reaching a wide gap in cover Orin peeked around the corner, getting an eyeful of bisected Triad for his trouble. For someone that small wielding a weapon that large, Argent was terrifyingly quick on his feet. His expression was of stern focus rather than savagery, which suggested to Orin some degree of self-control. It seemed at odds with his lack of hesitation to shed blood, but at the same time he was willing to spare the lives of the White Fang simply on Orin's say-so, and why? Because they worked for the same person?

"Alari above, Gill," Orin muttered, "what kind of leash did you put on this kid?"

The way out of the dockyard was clear pavement and open concrete leading up to the gate. Running the distance would have been a death sentence, even without one of their leaders standing nearby. He knew him as Long Arm Cheng, one of the men present during his last meeting with Big Eyes Yin, and he was currently communicating frantically with Yin over a scroll. Everything Orin knew about Cheng pointed to him being a piece of shit in the approximate shape of a human being.

His one redeeming factor was his taste in vehicles. Parked beside him was a beauty of an old-model muscle car, yellow with a black pinstripe and everything a gangster kingpin could afford beneath the hood. He would have loved to pick it up on the cheap at a police auction, but Cheng covered his tracks so well that the odds of any of his assets being siezed was practically nil.

As Orin quietly considered his options the universe decided to do Remnant a favor and pull Cheng unceremoniously into the shadows, where he gurgled quietly before falling silent. Blinking in confusion Orin hesitantly stepped out, scanning the area before an object, glinting in the light, was thrown at him. Reflexively he snatched it out of the air with one hand, opening it to reveal a car key linked to a mah jong tile on a chain. The darkness in front of him thinned and spread, revealing a figure in deep blue and black, which held one finger against its lips before melting back into the dark.

"...sure," Orin said, after a few seconds of silence. "Yeah, let's go with that."

His attention was drawn to the squeal of tires, and he turned his head to see the truck speed past, not even bothering to stop for the gate as it broke through the wooden barricade and veered onto the street. As it departed he could see Argent riding in the back, splattered with blood. Well, he thought, that's one way to make an exit.

 

\-----

 

Reasoning that his killer would not be so audacious as to attack him in public view, Porfirio took shelter in a traditional medicine shop, the front open to the street. It was a curious place, though not unpleasant, and he found himself engrossed in conversation with the greying shopkeep. Not so much, however, that he didn't notice the footsteps of several people approaching. A glance over his shoulder revealed five young men, adorned with tattoos, carrying various makeshift weapons. "Hey burnie," the frontmost said, "you're pretty far from home."

"I live on the road," he replied.

"Our boss wants to talk to you."

"Me? I'm just a traveling musician." He tapped his fingers against the top of his case beside him. With his other hand, he slowly reached into his belt, first pressing the button on the device Aoto gave him, then opening one of the small pouches.

The leader turned his head to one of the men at his flank, gesturing to Porfirio with his armed hand and saying something in the local language. "He wants a _private performance_ ," he said, turning back.

"Really." He rubbed his fingers against a piece of chalk, coating his fingers in dust. Taking a jar of mineral water from the display in front of him he lowered it in front of him, out of sight of the Triad foot soldiers before tracing a rough pattern of lines on it. "I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

He scowled, moving in. Reaching into the hatch on his case Porfirio drew his rapier, lashing out with one smooth motion and catching the Triad in the jaw with the pommel. As he reeled, Porfirio hurled the jar towards one of his followers, the jar shattering and soaking him in water a split-second before it crystallized, forming a solid shell of ice around his arms and torso. The others recoiled as he fell to the ground, and Porfirio took advantage of their surprise to exit the shop, putting a few feet between him and them before taking a fencing stance and raising his blade.

As the Triad straightened up he dabbed at the side of his mouth with his fingers. Looking behind him he pointed to one of his henchmen, gesturing to the ice-encased man on the ground with a word before turning back, leveling a cold stare at Porfirio. "Good trick, burnie, but you're still outnumbered." His attention was drawn to something behind Porfirio, and he smirked, reaching an arm out and pointing towards him. "Outgunned, too. Cheng's on his way."

Porfirio glanced behind him as a yellow car rolled up to the sidewalk to his rear. He edged to the side, prepared to face the driver. He expected a Triad; he received a red-haired out-of-towner a few years his elder dressed in street clothes. The men in front of him were more taken aback than he when he exited the car, muttering something about good samaritans. "Hey," he said to Porfirio. "Looks like your day is going about as well as mine."

"I suppose," Porfirio replied. "Are people trying to kill you as well?"

"That's Long Arm Cheng's car!" the Traid shouted, pointing. "Get him!"

"Couple hundred," he said off-handedly, slipping his fingers into the gauntlets dangling from either side of his belt.

The four gangsters charged, and Porfirio lunged, lancing the leader through the chest. As Porfirio drew back Orin advanced, ducking the second's bat swing and retaliating with an uppercut to the chin, stunning him long enough for a hard straight that sent him to the pavement. The third lashed out with a chain and he swayed back, metal links whipping through the space his head occupied a split-second before. Orin continued to backpedal, evading a second overhead swipe that left the Triad vulnerable for a precise strike from Porfirio. The one survivor left standing hesitated, feet shuffling before he broke and ran away.

As soon as the Triad's back was to them Orin gestured to the car. "Get in."

Porfirio ducked into the shop, sheathing his sword in his case's compartment before taking it up, running back and sliding on his backside across the hood of the car. They climbed in, and Orin pulled away from the curb before accelerating down the road.

"I don't think I introduced myself," Orin said. "The name's Orin Falconer."

"Alon-" Porfirio began, cutting himself short. "Porfirio Quijano, son of the Duke of Castille."

"No shit." He reached out with his right arm, awkwardly shaking Porfirio's hand across the gear shift. "Pleased to meet you, your highness."

"Just 'Porfirio' will suffice." He took a second to glance around the interior of the car. "Is this stolen?"

"Not really." He eased the car onto a main road. "The owner died about five minutes ago after getting stabbed by a ninja."

"You've met Aoto, then."

Orin gave him a look. "Do you normally have ninja bodyguards?"

"No, he simply started following me around to ensure I stayed out of trouble."

"Fat lot of fuckin' good that did. No offense."

"You could tell him yourself."

"Who?" He glanced up into the rear view mirror, then did a double-take at the figure sitting behind them, nearly swerving off the road in his surprise. "FUCK!"

"I came as soon as possible," Aoto said. "My apologies for my tardiness."

"No harm done," Porfirio replied. "It wasn't the local criminal element that was interested in me, was it?"

"No."

"So what brings you to lovely crime-free Ober?" As he reached for the glove compartment he added, "pardon me for reaching." It dropped open with the pull of the latch, revealing a large semi-automatic handgun with a pale blue metallic finish. He took it up, turning it over in his hand as he gave an appreciative whistle. "Carrying guns around in Ober, Cheng? Naughty naughty."

"A threat to my homeland with heretofore unseen capabilities."

"No shit. Sounds like something worth risking your neck for."

A second later there was a loud thump on the roof of the car as a blade punctured the metal, lancing into Porfirio's left shoulder. He cried out in pain as Aoto and Orin's heads snapped upward, and Orin cursed as he raised the handgun, firing into the roof before wrenching the wheel to and fro in an attempt to dislodge the attacker. The blade withdrew, and there was another thump as a young woman in black and deep grey mottled camouflage landed on the trunk, sword planted in place to keep her steady.

Gripping a metal spike Aoto leaned over, swinging it against the rear window and shattering it, the fragments crumbling away. The young woman leapt off out of view, and Aoto climbed up and rolled out the open window, rising to his feet and springing off in pursuit.

"Alari above!" Aoto exclaimed. Then, noticing Porfirio's injury, he asked, "you okay?"

"The wound is deep," he replied, pained, "but still treatable." Removing a handkerchief from his breast pocket, he pulled away his coat and shirt, pressing the cloth against the cut.

"You want I should head for the hospital?"

He glanced out the broken rear window. "No, all I need is some time to work. Preferably where we won't be ambushed."

"Clear lines of sight and plenty of escape routes, huh? Yeah, I know a place."


	9. Chapter 9

The pursuit lasted but a few buildings; Aoto's prey either wasn't trying to escape or knew she couldn't. She came to a halt atop a wide, flat rooftop, and as she turned to face him Aoto drew a heavy throwing spike from the holster across his back, hurling it directly at her. In response she swung her arm out, the loops in her hand extending into a length of long, thin-linked chain, and lashed the spike out of the air, sending it spinning upward before detonating with a loud thump.

With a flick of her wrist she brought the chain back in, twirling the hooked end leisurely before catching it. "I hope you didn't think that would actually work," she said.

Aoto straightened up. "Setsuna."

Setsuna smiled, free hand resting on the hilt of her sheathed weapon. "Aoto."

They charged, drawing their swords. The blades glanced off each other as they struck and Setsuna drew back, parrying Aoto's second swing before sweeping the hook for his head. Aoto crouched as she followed through with the sweep, turning and blocking his retort, back turned, before lashing out again with the chain. He rolled, links biting into the stone roof where he once stood, and flung a spread of spikes before lunging. The throw went wide as she weaved to the side, meeting his sword with her own. Their weapons locked, they pushed against each other to a stalemate before leaping back.

"You've taught me a lot," Setsuna said. "I never would have thought someone could be both a dog _and_ a sheep."

"You were selfish."

"The word they used was 'insubordinate,'" she replied, before advancing.

Again they clashed, each swing met with a response. They were mirror images of each other, their style favoring quick strikes at vital points. Both knew where to attack and what to defend, and so strikes met air, steel, or scabbard, avoided or blunted before the other counter-struck, their attack meeting the same fate. Occasionally they would break away from the other, the battle pausing as they searched for a weakness in their opponent in the light of the setting sun.

"We're the only real power Tokei has," Setsuna said. "We exist to compensate for it's irrelevance. You can't be blind to that."

"I'm not."

"So why are you doing this? I was smart enough to leave, so why aren't you?"

"Duty."

Setsuna gave Aoto a small, sad shake of her head. "I used to think better of you, dear sister."

The battle raged between the two young women, the sole thing breaking their symmetry being the other weapons they carried: Setsuna's chain whip and Aoto's spikes. One kept the other off-guard with swings and sweeps, the other served as a distraction and a means of forcing her to close in. As time wore on, however, Aoto found her reserves depleted, leaving her with only two large spikes. Both were worn down, their gradual sloppiness showing, though neither were in a position to take advantage of it.

After another bout of combat, Aoto slowly backpedaled as Setsuna held her ground. She slowly paced to the side, searching her for some sort of weakness or opening. Setsuna had the advantage of range, and the foolishness of granting her more came to the forefront of Aoto's mind. Soon, however, it was replaced with the germ of an idea.

"What's the matter?" Setsuna asked. "You haven't once asked me to come back."

Aoto shook her head. "No." She drew her sword, turning it in her fingers to an underhanded grip. "No forgiveness. Not for traitors."

"I'd rather betray the world than myself." She flexed her fingers, loosening her grip on the coil of chain in her hand. "Maybe you'll understand some day."

Aoto charged, blade held in front of her. Setsuna lashed out with the chain, and as it neared her Aoto turned her arm, catching it on her weapon. The length at the end wound around her sword and Aoto plunged it into the stone, still running as she reached for the sheath in her back. Setsuna grit her teeth, dropping the handle of the whip as she brought the sword in her other hand up, sweeping for Aoto's midsection and missing by a hair as she dove for the side, the tip slicing through her clothes. Drawing a metal spike Aoto lunged for Setsuna and brought it to bear, the point sinking into her jugular.

The two fell still for a moment before Setsuna's knees buckled and gave way, blood spilling from the wound in her neck. She let out a quiet gurgling as she dropped her sword, pulling out the spike and clutching her throat. Aoto gave no reply as Setsuna stared up at her in shock, life ebbing as she fell forward before finally going limp.

Aoto stood in silence, breathing heavily, before a distant gunshot brought him out of his trance. The shot was followed by a second, then a third, distant staccatos of fire breaking out across the city. Walking over to his sword he yanked it from the stone, sheathing it as he looked over Setsuna's chain whip. After a few seconds of deliberation he picked it up, coiling it in his hands before hooking it onto a spot at his belt. Then, with a final look back at Setsuna's body, Aoto approached the edge of the building and leapt away.

 

\-----

 

When the scroll call came in, Orin was leaning against his new car and scanning the outskirts of Sai Wan Teng Country Park, watching for unwanted visitors while glancing back at Porfirio on a nearby park bench to see how his patch job was progressing. "Orin."

"It's Argent. The fighting's started."

Orin turned his head, listening to the faint sounds of gunfire. "No shit." He paused to try and figure out what happened. The Ten Brothers probably thought that the White Fang tried to reclaim their guns, so they made their move against them, with the smaller gangs taking advantage of the confusion. "You, uh... take care of the guns in the truck?"

"Yes."

While he was at it he probably "took care of" everyone the guns were going to, Orin thought. "Good, so at least that's one problem dealt with. Now we need to worry about those bombs."

Porfirio glanced up at Orin, still applying dark unguent from a bottle onto his wound. "What bombs?"

"The White Fang has a bomb plan in mind but we're not sure who or what they're targeting."

"I see." He thought for a second. "Are there any business headquarters in the city that they have a problem with?"

"Oh, hell yes. Schnee, Prendick and Montgomery, maybe Sundowner but they learned their lesson with them..."

"None of those are based in Ober, however."

"No, but a lot of their shipping goes through here."

Porfirio nodded, falling silent. His thoughts wandered, and his head suddenly snapped up, looking at something in the distance. "What about that?"

"What about what?" he asked, trying to follow his line of sight.

"The wall. What if they target that?"

"Then the Grimm would get in." He began tapping on his scroll's screen. "Hard to run a business when you've got monsters in the streets. Good thinking." Then to the scroll he said, "Fox, got a question."

"Go ahead," Gill said.

"How big an explosive would you need to punch a hole in the peninsula wall?"

"This is in regards to the White Fang lead?"

"Yeah. Could a truck bomb do it?"

"Likely not." A beat. "Unless..."

"Unless they used Dust as a reactant," Porfirio said. "But they'd need a significant amount."

"One moment." Some seconds later Gill continued. "Schnee reported a theft five weeks ago which included unrefined Dust. Making it suitable for use in a bomb would take a sizeable laboratory, which narrows down the possible locations..." Another pause before an icon of a small envelope appeared on Orin's screen. He gave it a tap, revealing a map of the city with five red dots on it. "There's five likely sites in Ober; I'm passing the information on to the police."

"Thanks, Fox," Orin said.

"I'm closest to the one in the Southern District," Argent said. "Signing off."

"Yeah, but the cops'll- hello?" He sighed, closing his scroll. "Someone needs to put a leash on that kid."

Porfirio pressed a patch of gauze against his wound. "Who is this 'Fox?' Is he an informant?"

"...kind of," Orin replied, after a moment of hesitation. "He makes arrangements with people to solve problems the port authority can't deal with."

"He's a criminal, then."

"I think a better term might be 'fixer.'"

"Do the police know about him?"

"Saul Jericho does, but to the rank and file he's probably just a rumor, if that."

"How much of the current situation is his doing?"

"I know what you're thinking," Orin said, "and Ober's a special case. It's not protected by cops, it's protected by soldiers. They wanted something that would weaken their enemies and get them out in the open so they could act, and they got it."

"They don't see it as serving law and order."

"No, they do. But to them, this is about reclaiming territory lost to insurgents. As much as the Triads want to talk about their history in Ober, the soldiers were there first. You want to talk about dealing with threats to your homeland?" He made a sweeping gesture towards the city below them. "No half measures. Especially not with how much of Mistral's trade runs through here."

The two fell silent. Porfirio, in contemplation as he tended to his injury; Orin, thinking about how expensive it would be to replace the rear window and patch the holes in the roof and trunk. As he pulled up his shirt and rebuttoned it Porfirio broke the silence. "So, what now?"

"Well," Orin began. "We're driving around in a car stolen from a leader of the most notorious criminal organization in the city, a gang war has broken out, a terrorist group is plotting to blow up the walls keeping the Grimm from running rampant in the streets, and a literal army is moving out. I have debts to settle before the people in question get arrested or shot, and _you_ need to get out of here."

"I think not. I'm the target of an assassin yet the Triad want me alive."

"Both of those are good reasons why you need to leave."

"...and learning why the Triad want me alive is a reason to stay."

Orin let out a deep sigh. "Right, of course. Well, most of their foot soldiers are gonna be out on the street, so I figure Big Eyes Yin's place is going to be undefended. If anyone knows why it would be him, so if you wanted to tag along then I guess that's fine by me. Just keep in mind that I can't guarantee your safety."

He nodded. "I understand." Gesturing to the car he added, "shall we go?"


End file.
